


Be The One

by Dansnotavampire



Series: The Kepcobi Dua Lipa fic anthology [4]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Death, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Not Happy, Sadness, Slice of Life, Trans Daniel Jacobi, Trans Male Character, ish, public shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 04:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12786603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dansnotavampire/pseuds/Dansnotavampire
Summary: A story of two men, love, and an almost-happy ending





	Be The One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [colonelkepler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonelkepler/gifts).



> Based around the lyrics to Dua Lipa's Be The One

You look at him, and see the moon. Calm, ethereal, beautiful. He doesn't look back. Instead, because you're standing in the debriefing room and Mr. Cutter is telling you exactly what you did well and what you fucked up, he's looking at Cutter, who is eerily reminiscent of a sun - he's fire and fury, and he could just as easily take your life away as he gave it back to you after a meeting in a bar so many months ago.

The meeting wasn't with him, but the point still stands. Mr. Cutter saved your life. He's not a man you want to be in debt to.

You come back to yourself when Cutter points the pen he's holding in your direction, the stabbing motion reminding you of a knife. "And you, Jacobi," he says "What do you think?"

 _Fuck._ You really should've been paying more attention. "Sorry, Sir. Can you please repeat the question?" You say. 'I was too busy romanticising the idea of my murderous ass of a boss instead of paying attention to the debriefing,' you don't say. You don't think that would go down very well.

Cutter catches on. "Oh, Mr. Jacobi," he says, "I don't blame you for being distracted. Our dear Colonel does make _quite_ the picture, doesn't he?"

The corner of Kepler's mouth quirks up in a smirk. He doesn't turn to face you, but his words are aimed at you anyway, the low thrum of his voice running straight through you as he says "Your admiration is appreciated, Mr. Jacobi, but please, have some professionalism. You can look _after_ the debriefing."

What you say in reply is "Yes, Sir." What you think, however, is 'what if I want to do more than look? Can I have that, too?'

You'd never say that, however. You're not enough of a fool to try and pry emotion from Warren James Kepler.

_I see the moon, I see the moon, I see the moon_

_Oh, when you're looking at the sun_

_Not a fool, I'm not a fool, not a fool_

_No you're not fooling anyone_

Cutter carries on the debriefing, but he doesn't repeat the question that you didn't hear. You choose not to pester, knowing that despite his cheery manner of speech and the carefully crafted smile painted over his face, he's pissed at you. Whether it's for not paying attention or for daring to have feelings, you're not sure.

The debriefing comes to an easy, natural end, and Cutter dismisses you. He tells Kepler to wait behind.

You wait patiently outside of the debriefing room, hoping that Kepler comes out soon. He exits after about t.v. minutes, looking slightly paler than he did when you left. "You okay, Sir?" you ask as you fall into step behind him. He doesn't answer, so you just hope.

With a man like Kepler, sometimes all you can do is hope.

You're not sure where he's headed, but he doesn't tell you to stop following him, so you remain a dutiful half-pace behind. He comes to a standstill in the middle of an empty corridor, and turns to face you. There's space either side of you, his arms down, relaxed, but you still somehow feel cornered by that sharp, fox-like gaze of his. "So, Mr. Jacobi," he says. "About what happened in the debriefing."

You start rambling defensively. "Sorry, Sir, its my problem, it won't happen again, I won't let it distra-"

He cuts you off. "Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner some time - but if you're that uninterested..." he trails off, clearly expecting you to jump at the offer.

You do. Or, at least, you would, if you were capable of speech, movement, anything other than standing there, shocked.

"Uh, Jacobi? You okay there?" He suddenly seems incredibly awkward. It really doesn't suit him.

You come back to yourself with a cocky smirk and a sarcastic reply. "Really, Kepler - you ask me on a date and refer to me by my damn surname in the same sentence? Some technique you've got there."

He huffs out a sigh. "Fine, Daniel, dearest, would you do me the honour of accompanying me for dinner tonight?" He's so over the top, suave and dramatic enough that you almost forget that both of your hands are dripping with enough blood to fill the graveyard your fake headstones are in. You almost forget that the last time someone asked you to dinner in this building, it ended with two broken hearts and light years distance between you. You almost forget that you broke Klei-someone's (you can't even think his name, daren't even taint the memory of him with your blackened soul) heart just by being yourself.

You practically _giggle,_ and you almost jump because you haven't made a sound like that in years, hell, in over a decade. It's the kind of sound that should fall from the mouth of a child on their birthday, not from the lips of a man who's hands only create chaos and death, not from the lips of a man like you.

"Of course, Warren, darling. I would be honoured to join you for dinner tonight." The two of you hold eye contact for a few seconds, then both of you burst into giddy laughter - not just at your antics on your part, but also because holy shit _Warren Kepler_ just asked you to dinner, and there's no way that this is real, is there?

He pushes you up against the wall of his apartment and presses kisses like fire down your neck later that day, and you realise that yeah, this is real as fuck.

It remains real as fuck over the next week, fortnight, month, and then things go fairly well for the next four, five, six months - sure, you have your rough patches, but given that neither of you know how to be people, you're doing pretty good.

Until you're not.

You were on a mission on your six month anniversary, and it shouldn't have mattered to either of you - because its not like you could refuse the mission, lest Cutter find out - he has _very_ specific opinions on what his employees should be doing in their spare time, and 'each other' is definitely not near the top of that list (and haven't you already made that mistake once before?). So you take the mission, and you end up spending your anniversary being shot at intermittently by three different groups of people.

That's not even the problem, though. The problem arises when Kepler takes a bullet to the ribs and no one can get the two of you out for the next few days, so you have to patch the wound using the world's tiniest fucking first aid kit, and he still almost passes out. Twice.

You get extracted two days later, and they take Kepler straight to medical. You're sat by his side near constantly for the week and a half it takes him to wake up, with nothing to do but think.

And when you have nothing to do but think, you end up with some pretty toxic thoughts.

Thoughts that tell you that you should leave, because in your own twisted head it's your fault that he got shot, your fault that a man you might just be starting to learn to love is lying in a hospital bed with a bullet wound in his shoulder, and at least eight months before he can return to the job that might be the only thing in the world that he loves more than the whiskey he always tastes of.

So the day before they say they're going to bring him back to consciousness, you leave a note on Warren's bedside table, just to let him know that you're still alive, and that you're sorry, and sign yourself up for a four-month undercover mission on the other side of the world.

That should give you enough time.

(You don't see the nurse clear the note away, unread, a few hours later.)

Maxwell somehow gets a message to you, whilst you're in a strange country, speaking a strange language, wearing a name that feels wrong on your tongue. She gets a message to you, and asks if you're okay. You tell her that you are, and you think that's the end of it.

A few days later, she tells you that Kepler misses you, and while the man you've borrowed doesn't react, you're hit with a pang of guilt, of longing, and you realise that you miss Kepler as well. You still have three months left out here, though, so you tell her that he shouldn't, and try and push all thoughts of your former lover to the back of your mind.

_Oh, but when you're gone_

_When you're gone, when you're gone_

_Oh baby, all the lights go out_

_Thinking, oh that, baby, I was wrong_

_I was wrong, I was wrong_

_Come back to me, baby, we can work this out_

Kepler meets you when you get off the plane. You can see the stress on his face, not in his expression, but in the bags under his eyes, the messiness of his hair. Gone are his usual suit and tie that he wears for work, replaced with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that you've only ever seen him wear around the apartment. The weather is warm, and he has a leather jacket slung over his arm. He looks softer, almost, more like a person than he usually does, at least at work. That's when you realise; he's not here for Goddard. He's here for you.

You're so fucking glad that they debriefed you on the plane.

You walk slowly, calmly across to him, but it's all an act. You can feel the adrenaline buzzing in your veins, the only things stopping you from running over to him being the weight of your luggage, the fact that people are watching you, even if - somehow - no one's staring at Kepler, and the fact that... well. The fact that you're not sure if you get to run over to him anymore.

He takes one of your bags, lifting it with ease, and the two of you walk towards your taxi. Neither of you speak until you're in the back of the taxi, and the driver slides the partition shut. "So," he says, uncomfortably stiff, not turning to face you, "glad you made it home safe."

You want to lean on his shoulder, press yourself into his side, tangle his fingers between your own, so badly, but you don't. Instead, you sit and face forward, just as stiff and static as Kepler. "Sorry," you say, even though you know its an empty statement. "Fuck, Warren, I'm so sorry."

"For what, _Jacobi?_ " The emphasis he places on your surname isn't lost on you. You haven't been forgiven. (There was no way that you were going to be forgiven any time soon, but it still stings.)

God, there's so much that you're sorry for. For caring more about explosions than you did about people, for not being able to talk about feelings, for constantly blaming yourself, for letting Kepler get shot, for leaving with only a note, for stealing away without a proper goodbye.

To put it simply, you're sorry for not being good enough.

However, you don't voice any of these thoughts. You try, of course you try, but you can't put the words in the right order, can't work out how to do this - any of this.

You breathe a quiet sigh, and Kepler finally turns to face you.

"You didn't even leave a note, Daniel. Not even a _fucking NOTE!_ " You've never seen him as mad as he is now, and you get the sudden urge to kiss him, as if that would make things any better. "I can understand you wanting to leave, but why wouldn't you say goodbye, goddamnit!"

Your voice is barely above a whisper when you say "I left a note, Warren. I wrote out a goddamn note and I left it on your bedside table less than a day before they were due to wake you up. I'm... if I'd known you wouldn't've got it, if have told Alana to give it to you. I just... didn't want her to know."

"Why?"

"Huh? Why what?"

"Why didn't you want her to know?" All the vindictive, righteous anger from earlier is gone, and you're infinitely more wary, because this isn't Kepler, confused, or Warren, hurt - this is Kepler, curious, picking at your weaknesses and finding out how he can use them against you in the future. "Didn't you trust her?"

"I did. I do - I just trust Cutter to be able to talk her into spilling secrets more."

Kepler chuckles darkly, no real humour behind it. "And you didn't want Cutter to know?"

You quirk an eyebrow at him. "If I could live my whole life with Cutter only knowing my surname and what he should be paying me each month, then that would be fine."

"Is that all?" Kepler asks, knowing full well that it is not.

You sigh. "No. No, it isn't."

Kepler looks at you, almost _through_ you, and silently implores you to speak.

Ugh. "Fine, I was... I was scared. Of what he could do to you, to us, if he found out. Feelings make great leverage, you, you should know that. You're good enough at using them to get what you want from people." You almost mutter the last sentence, your voice losing the slightly desperate tone from earlier in favour of something that sounds almost bitter, resentful.

"Why aren't you worried about what he'd do to you?"

 _'Because I'm not as important as you are,'_ your brain supplies. _'Because you're special, you're talented, you're beautiful, and me? I'm nothing, Warren, nothing but a bundle of insecurities and self-destructive tendencies, and if it weren't for you I'd be dead.'_

(You'd also be dead without Cutter, but that doesn't matter right now. Cutter is just as likely to be the cause of your death as he is the preventor of it.)

However, you being you, none of these thoughts get voiced. They just sit in your head, festering until they eventually burst out in a disaster - be it an explosion, or some stupid stunt like the one you pulled with Kepler. They always come out in disaster in the end. You've had a disaster far too recently, though, so instead of revealing what an emotionally weak mess you are, you just sigh, and say "Because I don't really give a shit about myself anymore, Warren."

He looks you in the eyes, like he knows exactly how you feel - despite the fact that hes probably the second most confidemt man you've ever met, despite that he's as close to perfect as one can get - and says, in a tone softer and more tender than you thought he could produce, "Well maybe, Daniel, you should start to."

Then he reaches across and tangles his fingers with your own, and while you know that everything's not perfect, that it's barely even good again, you also know that maybe, just maybe, you're getting back on the right track.

_Oh baby, come on, let me get to know you_

_Just another chance so that I can show_

_That I won't let you down and run_

_No, I won't let you down and run_

_Cause I could be the one_

_I could be the one_

_I could be the one_

_I could be the one_

It's the next morning, and the two of you are laid in bed next to each other, Kepler's gentle fingers tracing swirls over your clothed chest, when he says "It wasn't your fault, you know."

You make a small, confused noise, unsure what he's talking about.

"That I got shot. It wasn't your fault - that is why you left, isn't it? You felt guilty about me getting injured." You roll over to face him, your noses almost touching, and he carries on talking. "You forget, Daniel, that I _know_ you." He punctuates his statement by pressing a gentle kiss to your mouth, and all you can think is that yeah, maybe he really does.

_I see in blue, I see in blue, I see in blue_

_Oh, when you see everything in red_

_There is nothing that I wouldn't do for you_

_Do for you, do for you_

_Oh, cause you got inside my head_

Years later, Alana asks you, and you say that you honestly hadn't meant to fall in love with Warren. You imagine that, if he were still here to answer that question, he'd say the same thing.

But despite the lack of intention, you fall in love anyway. There's no moment when you actually fall for him, but there's a definite moment when you realise.

It's almost a year after... everything, and he's sat across from you, reading a book, glasses sat halfway down his nose. You're sketching him, and he's pretended not to notice, but you know that he knows. You begin shading in the hollow of his throat, and he licks his finger, and turns a page, and you're hit with a sudden pang of - not want, per se, but something like that.

Longing.

You're hit with a sudden pang of longing for this beautiful enigma of a man. You're not sure why you're longing, when you know that you could have this man whenever, but still.

And then it hits you - you could have him _whenever._ Right now, you could go over to Warren Kepler, climb into his lap, and kiss him breathless; granted, he might he a little irritated, cause he's halfway through a book he bought the other day and hasn't had chance to read, but you could.

You don't, instead picking up your rubber to gently erase some highlights into the lenses of Warren's glasses. You look back up at him, the sun streaming through a window, bathing him in a soft golden light, and he's so beautiful that it takes your breath away.

 _'I love you.'_ The thought wanders into your head, not necessarily unwanted, but certainly unexpected. You test the feel of the words on your tongue, mouthing them to yourself. Warren's engrossed in his book, but you still feel like he can see. You don't mind if he does, but you won't go out of your way to tell him.

Instead, you add a final couple of pencil strokes to your sketch, and look at your finished piece. It looks softer than your normal style, more tender.

It looks... loving.

Maybe one day, you decide, you'll show it to him.

A short while after that incident, Warren does the second most emotional thing he ever did in his life. (At the time, it was the most emotional thing. Whether that says more about him, you, or the two of you together, you're not sure.)

It happens when he's cooking dinner and you're loading up the dishwasher, and the whole situation is awfully domestic, more than you ever thought you'd manage to get in life. You don't know what he's making, but when you've finished loading the dishes you know that you'll walk over to him, loop your arms round his waist, rest your head on his shoulder, and he'll invite you to taste whatever it is in that pot he's stirring. It'll taste delicious, because all his cooking is.

Except, when you're going to put the last few glasses away, he calls your name. You stand up, and reply "Yeah?"

His voice hadn't trembled, exactly, but he'd sounded somewhat nervous. You walk out into the kitchen, glasses still in your hands.

 _"I love you,"_ he says, and you freeze, the glasses in your hands falling to the floor and smashing, exploding into a cloud of shards. You never expected him to say it first, which means you never expected him to say it.

You've been together for over a year, you've woken up next to this man almost every day for the past ten months, and you're also head over heels in love with him. You should be thrilled, should've dropped everything, run into his arms, and told him that yes, you loved him too. Instead, you stay there, frozen in place, as if you were a robot with all the batteries taken out. Warren is visibly taken aback, as if he too expected you to react like an actual person, rather than the self destructive mess that you were. A flash of pure, unadulterated _hurt_ darts momentarily across his face when you still don't react, before he closes off completely; not the usual charming facade he wears when he doesn't want people to read him - you know him far too well for that to work on you anymore - but just a blank expression, almost dead. You want to walk over to him, to kiss him softly and say sorry for being a fuck up, and to thank him for still somehow loving you, and most importantly to tell him that you love him too, but your limbs are still numb and your throat is dry and the words won't come to your brain. There's nothing you can do but watch as he turns off the gas, grabs his keys, and heads out of the apartment. He slams the door behind him, the only indication of any feeling he gives. When the bang has stopped ringing through the silent room, you fall to the floor and cut your hand on some of the glass.

It's only then that your seemingly foolproof ability to compartmentalize truly fails you, and you start to cry.

_Oh, but when you're gone_

_When you're gone, when you're gone_

_Oh baby, all the lights go out_

_Thinking, oh that, baby, I was wrong_

_I was wrong, I was wrong_

_Come back to me, baby, we can work this out_

You cry until you can't anymore, until you've shed a tear for every small ounce of stress this past year, and then more for all the shit that happened before Goddard, before Warren. You cry until you're numb, feeling as much emotion as he was showing just before he walked out. You pick yourself up off the floor, and clean up the glass, moving as if in a trance, blood still trickling down your arm from the cut on your hand. You ignore the pain as you tidy up and put the dishwasher on, only stopping to bandage it when it becomes necessary. You eat some of the pasta that Warren made, and put the rest in a bowl that you can heat up when he returns.

If he returns.

The hours tick by, but you don't really notice, until suddenly you look up from your sketchbook, (in which you're creating yet another drawing of Warren, this time where he's fallen asleep on the sofa and he looks so _gentle_ that it makes your chest ache) and realise that it's almost midnight and he's still not back, still out wandering the streets doing fuck knows what. A sharp blade of panic pierces through the numbness you're feeling, your mind going from 'what if he doesn't come back tonight' to ' what if he doesn't come back at all' in a matter of minutes.

But then _'what if he can't come back'_ wanders through your mind, unbidden, unwanted, unneeded, and you pick up the phone, and call him. It rings once, twice, three times, before hanging up with a crackle of static. You call again, and again, and again, always getting the same response. When it hits two am, you pour yourself a glass of whiskey, because you're lonely and it smells like him, and because you miss having his arm slung across your hips while you lie next to each other, trying to sleep. You promise yourself that you're going to call him one last time, and if he doesn't answer, you're going to give up and get fucking shitfaced.

And of course, that's when he picks up.

"Daniel," he says, and it's not quite an invitation to speak, but you take it as one anyway.

"Warren, pl-" he cuts you off.

"What do you want?" he says, and while it might technically be a question, it sure doesn't feel like one on your ears.

You respond anyway. "I want you to come _home,_ goddamnit, Warren," and you almost feel him stiffen up on the other side of the phone because thats the first time you've ever called it home, and you yourself stiffen up because of how close you come to saying 'I want you to make it feel like home again,' because of course it doesn't feel like home without him there.

He lets out a long, drawn out sigh, and says "Fine. I'll come home. See you in half an hour."

"See you," you reply, and then he hangs up.

You toss your phone down on the sofa, and flick through your sketchbook, touching up some shading as you go. When you're done, you put it down on the coffee table, and clear the whiskey away. You've just sat back down when you hear the door creak open, and Kepler's footsteps padding towards you. He looks at you expectantly, but you have no idea what to say - whether to apologise, to say how worried you were, to be glad he made it back safe?

So you don't say anything, and just hand him the sketchbook. He looks through it, slowly, methodically, but he still seems confused, still seems hurt - as if you hadn't just bared your heart to him in the only way you knew how.

"Well," he drawls "these are some very nice drawings, Daniel, but what exactly are they meant to say here?"

You softly sigh, and walk the few steps up to him, gently taking the sketchbook from his hands and linking his fingers with your own. "Warren," you say, and slide your hands up to cup his jaw gently. "I'm trying to say that I love you too."

He twitches, seemingly unsure of what to do, then he moves his hands to your waist, smiles softly, and says "Oh."

And you're not quite sure what happens next, but his lips are on yours, and it's absolutely perfect.

_Oh baby, come on, let me get to know you_

_Just another chance so that I can show_

_That I won't let you down and run_

_No, I won't let you down and run_

_Cause I could be the one_

_I could be the one_

_I could be the one_

It's been three years. Three years since you were caught ~~ogling~~ admiring your senior officer, three years since you though said senior officer was probably going to murder you, three years since he surprised you by instead asking you out to dinner.

He got back from a mission yesterday, but you know he's been planning something for tonight - likely a date, and given the new suit that's shown up in your wardrobe (which fits you perfectly) it's a fancy one.

You're currently in the living room, working on a drawing, because the moment you'd gotten to work that morning, Cutter had turned you round and sent you home with the words "It's your anniversary, Daniel! Take the day off!"

The fact that he knew about your relationship didn't worry you for some reason, and you headed back home, to where Warren was still sleeping off the mission.

You pour every ounce of love, and apology, and forgiveness that you have into that drawing, and finish it by midday. You carefully drape a cotton sheet over it and consider going back to bed, but realise that Warren probably wouldn't appreciate losing an entire day to jetlag, particularly not on your anniversary. You go into your room, and shake his shoulder to wake him up. He sits up slowly, with his hair sleep-mussed and his eyes half closed with tiredness. The remnants of a bruise are splashed across his cheek like watercolours on paper.

In short, he looks beautiful.

"Mornin, darlin'," he drawls, voice still thick with sleep. You chuckle, and steal a chaste kiss.

"Its hardly morning at half twelve, Warren," you say. "Want something to eat?"

"If you made it? Definitely not," he jokes as he pulls on his T-shirt and some jeans. You snort, knowing full well that's what he would say; out of the two of you, he's definitely the better cook.

You feel a sudden ache in your chest at how domestic this whole situation is - you're in your own room, in your own house, joking with your _boyfriend_ of three goddamn years about how you're a shit cook. It's surreal, and it's amazing.

He heads to the bathroom, and you go back out to the kitchen, and clear away the plate that had your (somehow edible) toast on it earlier. Warren comes back when you're clearing out the dishwasher. You're standing on your tiptoes, trying to put away some mugs, and cursing the unfortunate lack of a Y-chromosome in your genetics for making you such a damn short guy, when he nimbly removes them from your hands and puts them away, before turning you round and pressing you against the dresser. He kisses you, and then pulls away a mere inch and just says "Hey."

"Hey, you." You reply, and you can feel his breath on your lips, on your skin. You press your foreheads together, ignoring the little voice in the back of your mind that tells you that you can't have this, that you don't deserve this, because fuck it, you're in love. You deserve to be happy.

Warren cups your jaw, and steals another kiss from you, before he takes your hand and pulls you into the lounge. There's music playing, some sappy pop song that you really wouldn't have expected him to enjoy. He spins you round once, and then you link your arms around his neck, his in turn looping around your waist. You're not dancing, really - you're just... being. Swaying together to the beat of some song, sharing gentle kisses, enjoying the feel of the other's body next to you, each so warm, so alive. You come to a near standstill as you stop focussing on the music, and Warren whispers "I love you," against your lips.

"I love you, too," you whisper back, your voice soft and your heart fluttering in your chest.

The song comes to an end, and you take one of Warren's hands in your own, and pull him over to your easel. You pull the cotton sheet off of it with a flourish.

The drawing is of him, a side profile, coloured pencil on black card. He's looking off into the distance like some overly dramatic fairy tale prince, and the night sky behind him is a glimmering cloud of stars. He exhales sharply. "Damn," he says. "I forgot how good you were at this - Paris, right?"

"Yeah," you reply, a soft smile on your face. On your second anniversary, Cutter had sent you on an undercover mission to Paris for some tech conference, and he'd let you choose your own cover ("Director of department perks," Warren had said at the time.) Cutter hadn't commented on the fact that you went as a married couple, but you kinda that that was when he realised you two were together. The moment you drew was from your last day there, when you and Warren had taken a train down to the coast, and had a picnic, and a very important conversation. (You'd booked yourselves a few extra days in the hotel just to enjoy yourselves - Cutter hadn't brought that up, either.)

The two of you had been sat together on a cliff, overlooking the sea, sipping on fancy wine and talking about everything and nothing all at once, when Warren had just sighed, and said "I could get used to this."

You tilted your head up from where it was resting on his shoulder, your bodies pressed together against the cold night air, your fingers tangled together just because they could be, and asked "Get used to what?"

"This," he'd said, "You, me, us, being together. Being _married_."

"Why, Warren," you'd replied, the gentle teasing tone in your voice masking how serious you were, "Is that a proposal?"

He'd sighed, and run a hand through his hair, before saying "No, not quite. It was more of... a suggestion. Why? What would you have said if it was?"

You choked a little on your words, surprised by such a direct display of _love,_ and said "I... I don't know," with a soft voice and an even softer expression.

Warren's face had melted into a gentle smile not dissimilar to your own, cause he knew that, in your heart of hearts, you'd have said yes. (And that, that was the exact moment you drew, because he'd been so beautiful then, with the moonlight in his hair and the backdrop of the stars behind him, and an expression of pure fucking _love_ on his face.)

"Well, France," you say, back in the here and now, "We were a few hours away from Paris by then."

He chuckles. "Touché, Mr. Jacobi."

You startle a little, because he hasn't called you that off-mission in ages, but you figure he has a reason for it. He has a reason for almost everything he does.

You are the one with a reason, an ulterior motive, however, when you say "Goddamn, I miss that suit."

Warren doesn't say anything about your rather poor segue, instead saying "Have you tried on the one I got you?"

"Yeah, I have. It fits... It fits pretty fucking perfectly, to be honest - wanna see?" You ask with a cheeky smile.

"Sure."

You press an absent-minded kiss to his cheek, and dash back to your room. You take your time putting the suit on, and buttoning up the heeled boots that you'd bought yourself the moment said suit appeared in your wardrobe. You head back to the lounge, slinking round the doorway like an homme fatale in an old-timey detective novel. "So, Sir," you say, your voice low and seductive, "How do I look?"

Warren looks up at you, and his jaw practically drops. "Daniel," he says "You look... beautiful."

You quirk an eyebrow at him, because he always looks damn near godly, even in jeans and a ratty T-shirt. "You don't clean up too bad yourself, Sir," you purr as you walk - no, as you _strut_ over to him.

He swiftly recovers his composure, pulls you flush to him by your belt loops, and practically growls into your ear "As positively _delectable_ as you look in this suit, Daniel, I really do fancy seeing you out of it."

Your hands fall back into place around your neck, and his firm grip moves to the underside of your thighs as he lifts you, light as a feather, and carries you to your room. He doesn't throw you to the bed as much as he places you there, and slides the suit jacket off your shoulders, the buttons of your shirt easily coming undone under his fingers. He kisses you almost reverently, as if you were a deity and he were a mere man worshipping at your feet. He spends hours tracing every inch of you with his hands, his lips, his tongue, learning and relearning the curves and planes of your body, the smoothness of your skin, the salt of your sweat. You doze off together in a bliss-soaked haze, Warren's arm draped over your waist.

He wakes you up a few hours later, and tells you to put on the suit. "We have a reservation for seven in that new restaurant."

"The Italian? Nice."

Warren's already in his suit, a dark blue affair that clings to his legs and accentuates his already broad shoulders. He looks regal, the subtle silver embroidery on his waistcoat glinting in the golden light of the sunset coming through the window. Your own suit is slightly less spectacular, but it matches the jade buttons on your boots and the gold cufflinks on your wrists, and it makes you feel like a prince.

Warren looks at you, truly looks, his eyes tracing all the places that his hands did mere hours earlier. "My, Daniel," he drawls "you look beautiful."

"Well, Warren," you reply "I could say the same for you."

He offers you an arm, and escorts you downstairs and out to the car. He opens the door for you with a grand sweeping gesture, and does the same when you get out at the other end. You laugh at his dramatic behaviour, and he tips your driver generously.

When you walk into the restaurant you are greeted by a waiter, who introduces themself as Alex, and escorts the pair of you to a small, tucked away table. A string quartet is playing, and the air smells of honeysuckle and spices. There are a few couples dancing to the music that's being played; a pair of women, both in equally beautiful dresses, waltzing with practised ease, a man and woman who both look to be pushing sixty - they aren't as fluid in their movements as the two women, but there is still a steady grace to them. You smile softly at them, at their love, and privately, you hope to be like that with someone one day.

If the someone in your fantasy happens to be Warren Kepler, then you really don't mind

You take your seats, and Warren asks for a bottle of wine. "Of course, Sir," says Alex, and then he disappears off into the background of the restaurant.

You lean across the table and gently kiss Warren, just because you can, and then you quietly say "I love you," to him, just because you want to.

Alex returns with a bottle of wine, and takes your orders. You order something involving poultry and sour cherries, Warren has filled pasta of some sort - all you can say is that later, when you try some of it, it's delicious.

Time doesn't pass properly in there - your light conversation with Warren passes simultaneously as slow as a glacier and as quick as a bullet. You're a little buzzed on the wine - just enough to make sounds a little louder, lights a little brighter. The night is perfect, and you feel invincible.

You finish your main courses, and Warren stands. He offers you a hand, and the words "Daniel Jacobi, light of my life, may I have this dance?"

You pretend that you're not blushing when you take his hand, stand up, and say "Of course."

_Be the one, be the one, be the one_

_Be the one, be the one, be the one_

_I could be the one_

_Be the one, be the one, be the one_

_Be the one, be the one, be the one_

_I could be the one_

_Be the one, be the one, be the one_

_Be the one, be the one, be the one_

_I could be the one_

_Be the one, be the one, be the one_

_Be the one, be the one, be the one_

_Will you be mine?_

You feel light as air as the two of you dance together, lost in the movement as Warren expertly spins you round the floor, in the warmth of his body, the smell of his cologne. The music changes slightly as the two of you dance, but you don't notice until it reaches a crescendo as Warren dips you low to the floor, and then fades back into a gentle, slow waltz.

Warren sets you back on your feet, and you expect him to pick up the dance again. Instead, the music fades away into the background, and his hands slide away from your body, down your arms, until they are holding your own. The entire restaurant seems to be holding its breath in anticipation for what might happen next, for what you hope will happen next.

Then Warren J. Kepler, the love of your goddamn life, a man who knows you like no other ever has, gets down on one knee.

Your heart stops.

Warren starts to speak.

"Daniel Jacobi, my sun, my moon, my stars, you know what question I am going to ask you, here, tonight. Before you answer, I want you to know something." Here, he pauses, takes a deep breath. "I want you to know that I am a coward. When it comes to feelings, to the affairs of the heart, when it comes to _you_ I am a huge goddamn coward." He takes a breath again, this time sligtly shakier, slightly more nervous than the first. "When you left for China, just after I got shot, I was... I was terrified. I didn't know what had happened; hell, I thought I'd done something wrong." His voice dips a little, sounding uncharacteristically vulnerable. "I thought I'd lost you. You were gone, and that, that was when I realised that I loved you, and it was when I knew that I might never see you again. The idea of that still terrifies me. I can't imagine my life without you, Daniel. I can't imagine waking up to an empty bed, or walking into the lounge and not seeing you sat there, your brilliant hands creating art far beyond my capability. I can't picture myself making food without you coming up behind me and wrapping your arms round my waist as if there were no other place they were meant to be. You complete me."

He takes another breath, and looks up into your eyes, glimmering with hopeful tears. "Daniel Jacobi," he says, "Will you marry me?"

_Oh baby, come on, let me get to know you_

_Just another chance so that I can show_

_That I won't let you down and run_

_No, I won't let you down and run_

_Cause I could be the one_

_I could be the-_

You open your mouth to reply, you heart filled with love, with an almost bittersweet mix of desire and longing and _hope,_ for him, for you, for the life you could spend together. A single, hopeful tear runs down your face, and...

And you don't do anything to Warren, because the door's just been flung open, the loud BANG of it hitting the wall shattering the moment. Shattering your hopes. You're suddenly hyperaware of everything that's going on, your training kicking in in a flash. You hear three, four, five gunshots, and you can see Alex, under the counter, on the phone to... someone. The police, you hope. The two women from earlier, and the old couple, are frozen at their tables in fear. You look at Warren, and he nods.

You get up, and run across the room to the two couples, wordlessly escorting them behind the counter as Warren draws two handguns and opens fire. He fires off once, twice, three times, and the gunfire stops. You go back to him, expecting him to make a joke about the interruption, but he doesn't. He _can't._

He's lying there on the floor, dark blood pooling by his side. You run over to him, yelling - no, screaming - at Alex to call an ambulance. He does.

You put your hands all over Warren's chest, cupping his jaw, just holding his face. He smiles, bitterly, with blood spattered lips, and says, voice hoarse and painful, but still smooth as honey, and still so goddamn beautiful, "So, Daniel," he pauses, coughs out some more blood, "What's your answer?"

You kiss him, and hold him, your hands and lips stained red with blood, with _his_ blood, and you say, "Yes, yes, of course, yes." You press another hurried kiss to his lips as you notice his eyes start to close. "Please, Warren, stay with me," you say, more to yourself than to him. "Please," you say, one last time, voice hoarse, "I love you."

You lay your head on his chest as he breathes a last wet, crackling breath. "Daniel Jacobi," he says.

He doesn't finish his sentence.

The ambulance arrives, takes him away.

You start to cry. You don't know if you'll ever stop.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are my lifeblood. Please dont hate me for this.


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